


The Echoed Stone

by nerddowell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Archaeology, Brit references, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Storage Hunters is crap tv but everyone loves it really, The Princess Bride References, another AU the world never needed, classic movie dates, honestly these two i just can't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which skinny!Steve is a finds analyst working in the main office, Bucky is a glorified human JCB (the glamour of archaeology as a career, people), and there are 80s pop-culture references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Echoed Stone

**Author's Note:**

> People always say, _Write what you know_. What I know, amongst an enormous treasure trove of completely useless information, is archaeology and the positively archaic town of Canterbury in the south of England. I work for a company down there who are running a dig in Dover, so I've shamelessly exploited that. Sorry.
> 
> Also, this is unbetaed but hopefully makes sense. Any typos are my bad. Title from Ben Howard's _Old Pine_.
> 
>  
> 
> **As of 23/08/15, updated with added extra scenes!**

James - Yasha - isn’t really sure what he’s doing on this enormous and extremely complicated urban site in the southeastern quadrant of England. Canterbury is fascinating, full of historical buildings and museums, and although he sometimes struggles with the thicker Kentish accents, he generally likes it. Much better than Saint Petersburg, at least. Warmer, definitely. The other archaeologists look at him like he’s crazy when he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and digs in just a long-sleeved tshirt in February, but after a lifetime of bitter and vicious Russian winters, February in England feels like the Bahamas.

His colleagues, apart from the slight doubts over his sanity and/or internal body temperature, are lovely. Dugan - Timothy-call-me-Tim - smokes like a chimney, and wears his white hard hat with a panache only a large, brash American can. He can usually be found behind a cloud of blue cigar smoke inside the plant machinery, taking off the metre or so of solid concrete above the trenching area. On his first day, James almost came a cropper - a strange English expression taught him by Falsworth - when he walked under the scoop of Tim’s JCB seconds before it tipped half a tonne of concrete onto the spoil heap. There was more than a chance he could’ve been buried. Naturally, he gave both the digger and Dugan a wide berth from then on, although at lunch break, the man had approached to apologise and explain the mechanics of being several feet off of ground level with a large yellow obstacle in the centre of his windscreen which unfortunately hid everything - and everyone - passing underneath it from view.

Falsworth (another James) is a typical red-brick university educated Englishman, with what Tim describes as a 'silver spoon in his mouth'. He’s one of the field archaeologists, a supervisor in trench one in the northwest area, and seems to spend the majority of his time poring over plans and sections of walls and clay or chalk floors. He’s quiet, softly-spoken - but can drink even Tim under the table on their regular Friday nights out in the Bell and Crown, just around the corner from the cathedral.

Gabe, Jacques and Morita all work in Falsworth and James' trench (colloquially known onsite as 'America A', or 'Jamerica', from the number of both Americans and Jameses working in it), grade ones. Jacques Dernier is a Frenchman from across the Channel, and often struggles with the context sheets and paperwork that has to be filled out for every layer they trowel or mattock off; Gabe, fluent in French from his Cameroon heritage and high school education, spends much of his time patiently talking Dernier through everything. Morita (yet another James, or rather, Jim) is loud-mouthed and always with a smart remark or dirty story to make the other men laugh, and all three - Gabe, Jacques and Jim - are his usual drinking buddies on Fridays. The whole trench, plus Dugan and a couple of the guys from 'America B', the trench beside theirs in the same area, are a tight-knit group of friends.

James occasionally feels like an outsider.

His English is, though not absolutely perfect, grammatically sound and barely accented, so he doesn't struggle with the language or the paperwork the way Jacques does; but he still feels as though he's towards the edges of the group - not part of the central knot. Gabe and Tim make a point of encouraging him to come join them at lunchtime, to engage in the horseplay and the banter being thrown back and forth across the circle of chairs and upturned buckets, but he more often spends his lunchtimes with the pot washers, watching their careful, delicate movements tease pottery, glassware and bones out of muddy lumps.

They tell him about everything they've been washing, and he loves to listen. They’re so incredibly knowledgeable - at one point, there was a ball of what looked like cement that he was about to throw out, until Sam took it from him and gave it a scrub with a toothbrush, and suddenly out of the clump of greyish crap (Sam’s words, not his own), there appeared a World War Two hand grenade in almost perfect condition. Of course, they had to report it and hand it over to the MOD - undetonated explosives regulations, and everything - but still.

James smiled and promised to bring Sam something else interesting, whenever he managed to actually dig up something that isn't fragments of pegtile and flint nodules.

Morita is sat in the front seat of the work van, door open, smoking when James manages to struggle the gate open and slips inside. He waves hello, and Tim seems to loom out of nowhere to throw a meaty arm over his shoulders and grin at him, inviting him into the Portakabin hut for a pre-work mug of 'builders’ tea’ (too-strong stewed P.G. Tips). James nods and follows him, pulling his hi-vis over his jacket. Falsworth - all the Jameses are referred to by their surnames, to avoid confusion - scrunches up his nose and shoots Tim a disdainful look as he sips delicately from a thermos flask which smells faintly of lemon.

"You're not making him drink that awful rubbish again, are you? Good Lord, Dugan, you'll poison the poor fellow."

"Nothin' wrong with a good brew, Your Majesty," Tim retorts, and shoves a slopping mug into James' hand. Falsworth sniffs and goes back to his own tea. James stirs a teaspoon of sugar and a dash of milk into his own mug and slurps quietly as he waits for the day to begin.

Tim and Falsworth are discussing some of the new recruits, Phil and a pretty girl who, like James himself, is just out of uni whose name is Peggy. Tim is saying that they'll probably be pot washing for the first couple of days after their induction, after Phillips has shown them around and put the fear of God in regards to paperwork and health and safety into them, and James is half-listening when he catches a flash of gold outside the window and sits bolt upright, slopping his tea all over his leg and scalding himself through his ragged work trousers.

"You alright, Barnes?" Tim asks, shooting him a curious look. James nods, craning his neck to catch another glimpse of the Adonis passing the window, and finishes his tea too fast, throat stinging with the heat.

* * *

The months of digging roll on, but the routine rarely changes. Morning still passes quickly. It always does until break, and then again until lunch, after which point it seems to drag. But James is kept busy trying to clear a five-metre grid square of a layer of chalk flooring, so he doesn't feel the lagging time too badly. The floor is post-medieval at the earliest, but it's still exciting in that this is his first real archaeological project in Britain and England is very different to Russia. He still harbours hope of digging in Italy or Greece someday - doesn’t every archaeologist dream of being a mix of Indiana Jones and Heinrich Schliemann, hoping to find a lost Minoan palace or Homer's fabled city of Troy? - but until then, a smallish town in the south of England with the possibility of Roman and even Iron Age finds will keep him content.

Clearing the chalk is hard work; he swings the mattock hard, yanking it out to loosen chunks of chalk bigger than his head from the tight-packed floor, and every so often stops to mop his brow under the hard hat and shovel the loose into a bucket. Beside him, Gabe is working his own patch, chattering away to Jacques in rapid-fire French, every three or so words of which James is able to catch. They’re talking about Jacques' recent holiday across the Channel to visit family living down near the Camargue, and he smiles as Jacques recounts a story about his father-in-law falling off the houseboat whilst trying to moor on the canal, before catching, again out of the corner of his eye, that flash of gold.

No hard hat, so it must belong to a pot washer or offsite office staff. An unfamiliar, deep voice says a quiet  _Hey_ , and James looks up briefly to see the owner of both the voice and the shaggy head of golden hair.

He's a tiny, skinny American, with hair like summer wheat and eyes the colour of stars, and he’s got his plaid shirtsleeves rolled up to his mid-biceps to show a sleeve tattoo down his left arm with ink of a comic book hero throwing a shield with a star ringed in red, white and blue. James smiles and points to it with his trowel.  
"Very patriotic."

The guy grins at him and nods, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. "I was a real comic book nerd when I was growin' up, and I guess I look up to the heroes for standing up for what's right, y'know? When I was a kid I always used to pretend I was a hero called Captain America, and this guy-" he gestures to his arm with his other hand, "is a design I drew for him a while back. I mean, it's not great or anything - DC aren't gonna hire me any time soon - but I figured it'd look good in ink and, well, what better place for me as the superhero I'm never gonna be than on my own body, huh?"

"You drew that?" Gabe asks, impressed.

"Yeah, I mean, I sketched it and told Nat, the artist, what kinda thing I wanted for him, so it's ninety percent her work really, but… Yeah."

"It's good. It's… it's very good," James tells him, staring at the bright colours and sharp, smooth lines - in perfect comic book style. The guy smiles.

"Thanks. I'll pass that on." He turns back to Gabe. "So, uh, I’m kind of unofficially in charge of the small finds in the main office up near Tyler Hill, and I'll probably be spending most of my time there, but since I'm onsite today I figured I'd introduce myself to everyone since I’m new. I'm Steve, Steve Rogers."

"Gabe Jones," says Gabe, and James holds out his own hand - his right hand. "James Barnes."

Steve shakes both of their hands and smiles, a slice of sunlight in the cold February air. He’s shivering. James passes him his own ridiculously warm parka - designed to survive sub-zero Russian winters - and Steve shakes his head, trying to hand it back.  
"Thanks, but I'm okay-"

"You are cold," James argues, pointing to the undeniable goosebumps pebbling Steve’s thin arms. "Take it. I'm Russian, this weather is like the Caribbean to me."

Steve laughs and accepts the jacket. James treads down the small, happy flicker of possessive pleasure at watching him shrug it on, accepting James' clothes to cover his slim body - and then laughs as Steve has to push the sleeves up almost five centimetres to even be able to see his fingertips. Steve rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.  
"Didn't your mom ever teach you that good things come in small packages?"

"Yes," James says, and he's smiling too. "Yes, she did."

* * *

He ends up having to go to the office on Thursday to sort out bank and national insurance number details anyway, so when he heads over after leaving the Whitefriars site and manages to stumble across Steve leaving the finds building, well, it’s just a happy surprise. Albeit a happy surprise which is ruined slightly by the fact that James is disgustingly sweaty after a day of mattocking a fist-thick layer of frozen chalk off the ground in the middle of July, and he has chalk dust and mud smeared unattractively over his face like warpaint from the backs of his hands when he wiped those trickles of sweat away, and there are patches under his arms and on his back and chest where the thin material of his tshirt is sticking to his damp skin, and he's just generally gross and grimy. But Steve seems happy to see him still, and gives him a once-over and a teasing, "Been working hard?" as he carefully carries a tray of small finds across from the hut to the office where they will be catalogued.

"Yes, very hard," James grins, and rubs another damp patch of sweat off his brow, trying not to grimace at his own smell. Steve grins back as he looks around and asks, "Is Mr Phillips here? I have to see him about some details-"

Steve looks apologetic as he sets the tray down on a worktop and washes his hands in the sink. "He's gone home for the day, actually. Something about an early night and a bottle of scotch with his name on it. But I can fetch Dr Erskine from the lab? He knows all about the computer systems, so he'd probably be able to help. He's been showing me the ropes."

"Thank you," James says, and Steve smiles again.

"Any time."

Dr Erskine - the company's archaeological resource manager, who has a PhD from the technical university of Dresden in Germany and about twenty years of experience under his belt - is indeed able to help, and after a few moments of fiddling with the system whilst James recites various pieces of information (house number, newly-issued NINo and bank details), everything James came in for has been sorted out in his efficient Teutonic manner. He is a small, kind-faced man with small glasses and a short beard, and James is immediately reminded that he has what people call a 'fatherly aspect'. He can understand why Steve seems so fond of him, and why he was the one chosen to help train the new tech recruits. He certainly knows what he's doing.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Yasha?" He uses James' Russian name; perhaps trying to be friendly, or to put him as ease. Instead, it sets James' teeth on edge, for reasons he doesn't like to think about.

"James, please," he says, only a little stiffly, and the doctor immediately apologises and corrects himself. "No, thank you, that's everything. You've been very helpful."

"I try," Dr Erskine replies, and bustles away back to his small corner of the finds office. Steve is stacking the trays into pallets, affixing them with context and site labels to help the archivists, and James crosses the room to help him fit the last few in.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he says, and passes Steve a stray bag holding a small still-muddy metal disc with a label that shows the Whitefriars site and its small finds number. Steve slips it into a random tray and stacks the last pallet, running a hand through his tousled hair and smearing it with a thin film of muddy water. James bites back a smile.

"So, your superhero - Captain America," he says, pointing to the man on Steve's bicep, shown hurling his shield as though it's about to leap off Steve's arm and smack the viewer in the face. "Does he have a sidekick?"

"Of course," Steve grins. "All the best superheroes have sidekicks. His is called Bucky - Bucky Barnes, actually. Same surname as you." He looks up at James, and James can feel a warmth spreading through his stomach, a happy lightness in his chest. "Bucky's a cool guy too. A bit more of a ladies' man than the Captain, always flirtin' and dancing with all the pretty girls and more often than not getting into scraps - fights," he explains at James' confused expression, "but he's always got Cap's back, and he's a damn good fighter himself. Kind of what a superhero would be if he wasn't, well, super. A human hero."

James smiles. "Bucky Barnes, sidekick to Captain America. Much better than Dick Grayson, I think. 'Robin' is far too… cute? Too cute a name for a sidekick to a hero as badass as Batman."

Steve makes a pretend scandalised face. "Oh no, he didn't. You withdraw that right away. Poor Robin."

"I'm sorry-"

"I'm teasing. I agree, anyway." Steve grins at him and unrolls his sleeves, buttoning them up again at the wrists, and James allows himself a moment of distraction to say a mournful internal goodbye to the expanse of milky white skin and its bright splashes of comic-book colour as it is hidden by the grey material. "And besides, Batman isn't such a great superhero anyway. He has some good villains, definitely - but I always preferred Superman. Less… tortured."

The word makes a cold flash race down James' spine. He nods.

"I will see you later. Bye, Steve."

"Bye, James." He waves over his shoulder, and James heaves his backpack on and turns out of the gate, unable to stop himself glancing back to see Steve again. But the blond man has disappeared back inside.

* * *

He toes out of his work boots the minute he gets through the door of his rental apartment, wriggling his toes in their newfound freedom  (steel toecaps are a necessity onsite, in case of a 5lb mattock or pick through the foot, but they can greatly restrict movement). A creature of habit, he rarely ventures out of the house unless on one of the America trenches' pub-crawl Fridays, but instead makes a quick dinner and settles down with a book on the couch and reads as he eats. At the moment, he's engrossed in a Mary Renault novel about Alexander the Great, but he just finished _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ the previous day. He reads everything and anything he can get his hands on; the local library is small but still has a decent collection, and he often maxes out the number of books he is allowed to borrow because he can't decide on just a few.

This book shows Alexander and Hephaestion, his second in command, as lovers. He knows there are historical arguments both for and against that interpretation of history - much like there are for many classical-period heroes like Achilles and Patroclus, Herakles and his companions (he remembers that terrible television programme with Kevin Sorbo's rippling muscles, which - he is ashamed to admit - both inspired him to study classics as part of his university degree, and provided him with his twelve-year-old's sexual awakening.), James VI... It just surprises him a little to see it shown with such... love. And happily. Of course he's read _Brokeback Mountain_ and _The Charioteer_ and Lawrence's _Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ , but there's always something so tragic in those - with the love between the male characters being often forcibly hidden. But in this, they're so... open. And it's celebrated.

He remembers Russia, cold nights and dreams of a warm body wrapped around his - kisses that drugged him, touches over his sensitive body that made fireworks explode beneath his skin, made him arch against that fuzzy, nondescript dream mouth and beg, plead for more, another, anything that would soothe the ache of need inside him. Kisses and touches in dreams that turned cold and hesitant, then frightened, then painful. Russia is not a place for a man like him anymore. He isn't entirely sure, even, that England is - as open and accepting as they claim to be. But perhaps, as long as he keeps it hidden in books that he guilty disguises behind other dust jackets, and by forcing himself to look down or away whenever the handsome men onsite are stretching, turning to show their muscles, he will be all right. Not safe, not normal - but all right.

He reads until the stars are bright in the sky and his eyes are beginning to hurt from trying to focus on the small typeface, and closes the book with less than fifty pages to go after dog-earing the page to mark his place. (He knows he shouldn't do that with borrowed books, and he honestly does make the effort with train and bus tickets as bookmarks, but they always seem to get lost. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, et cetera.) He stumbles upstairs and into the shower, where he quickly rubs one out to help him sleep - biting his fist and trying desperately not to think of superheroes and shields and starry eyes and golden hair, and failing miserably - before flopping into bed and falling asleep like turning out a light.

* * *

He heads to the site office again the next day, under the pretence of needing someone to help him make sure he'd got all of his labels right. Of course, it's a lie. He's going for Steve - always, all for Steve - but at the same time, he's almost hoping that Steve won't be there. So that he can't incriminate himself any further by allowing himself to lust after another man - someone who, by definition, is wholly and utterly Out Of Bounds.

He gets one of his wishes. Steve is there, carefully scrubbing at a pot with a toothbrush, brow furrowed and the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips in concentration. It's so childlike, so endearing, that James makes a soft, genuinely _pained_ noise, and it's that quiet _ugh_ that rouses Steve from his reverie, paints that blinding, lemon-bright smile across his features, and makes James' heart speed in his chest. He has no right to be so excited to see Steve - not after only having met the man three days ago - but the reaction is instantaneous and, unfortunately for James, untameable.

"Hey!" Steve beams at him, and James gives him a stiff, slightly anxious smile in return. Steve's dims a little, but he seems to shake it off, and cocks his head curiously. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh - I - I, um, I-" James stammers helplessly. Useless. But Steve smiles kindly, puts down his toothbrush, and leans back in his chair. There are stacks and stacks of washed and unwashed finds around him, some in small finds bags and some in simple pallets, and there's drying pottery - glazed in an unfortunate snot-green colour which suggests a copper alloy having been used to manufacture them - sat in front of his bowls of cleaning water. But his eyes are not on his work; they're fixed on James' face, gentle and encouraging.

"Um, la... labels." He holds up his bag of small finds sheepishly, and Steve smiles.

"Sure. Let's take a look, huh?"

He arranges the bags in neat lines on the table, clever eyes flicking over them as he checks off his mental list. James can almost see the cogs turning in his head.

"This one is missing the triangular bracket around the small finds number, but that's not a major issue. Anyone with a brain can tell what it is." Steve grins at him. "But ideally the brackets all need to be there, otherwise people get confused as to what's the context number and what's the finds register number. Is the register still at the site, or...?"

"Uh... oh, no, this one is the small finds number. 103." He points to the number in the top left corner of the label. "And the context was..." He surveys his own work carefully, trying to sort through the jumble of letters and numbers to find the right detail. "Fuck, I can't remember. I'm sorry."

"No problem," Steve says gently, rubbing his bicep with one damp hand. The touch fizzles through him, and he flinches away instinctively - _too good, get away quickly before you make a fool of yourself_. Steve frowns briefly, his eyes turning curious and assessing as they flicker over James' face, and he averts his gaze in shame - before Steve opens his notepad and flicks towards the back, where there are whole pages of numbers in neat, spiky handwriting. "Do you remember where it was found? Your area's in the north-west, right?"

"Yes."

"So that's 001-A, isn't it, for the first trench in the north-west area..." He searches on the label and points, showing James what he means, "and then context should be right under it if you've filled the boxes out properly. If not, we can always work it out from the site directory. Each area has its own bracket of context numbers that refer to that area, and the north-west ones are 001 to 2000, so it shouldn't be too hard..." He hunts for another moment before smiling. "So here, look, the context is 1309. You've got the site code, _WFC-EX-15_ , so all you need to write is _103, 001-A 1309_ on your label, to define the specific context of the find, and then you just have to describe what you think it is, and put your name and initials, in this box here," he points again, "and that's your label all done. I know we've got a pretty complex system for this site, but that's just how this company does it. My last job just had the site code, a triple-digit context and name and initials, but I guess these are the big leagues." He grins at James.

"Thank you. Uh, you said about... brackets?"

"Ah! Yeah, so you need a triangle for the find number, round brackets for the context number... and you can always put the site code in square ones if you want, but we usually save those for cut numbers so..." He looks up at James and laughs. "I've lost you."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"No, no problem, it's a lot to take in." He scribbles on a page for a moment and then tears it out, handing it to James with a smile. "Here. This has all the details and the kind of brackets you need for them on there, so that should help you out onsite."

"Thanks." James smiles, stomach fluttering with butterflies at the sight of Steve's lips stretching into a smile in response.

"Any time."

* * *

Friday rolls around after a week of working themselves to the bone (literally in Morita's case, who came across the skeleton of a cat in the bottom of the cesspit in their trench). James showers, rinses his hair, and has another shave (his five o'clock shadow is a real problem - the curse of fast follicles and dark hair) before getting changed into his usual jeans and leather jacket to go to the pub. Tim, Falsworth, Gabe and Morita are all definites tonight; Jacques, a maybe. He checks his wallet - enough for three or four pints, if he decides to drink anything alcoholic at all - and locks the front door behind him, strolling down Old Ruttington Lane towards the King's Mile.

Tim and Morita are waiting outside, smoking, and Tim waves in greeting. James nods a hello and shuffles over to spark up beside them, taking a crumpled and mostly empty pack of cigarettes out of his pocket to smoke. Morita carries on the conversation - filling Tim in on the discussion of his cousin's wedding last year, which he attended as best man and got very drunk and made several comments that perhaps he shouldn't've - and Tim roars with laughter, and even James cracks a smile. He takes another deep draw, glancing down the street before doing a double take as he sees Steve Rogers, of all people, approaching them.

He's looking... Christ, so gorgeous. As always. Shaggy blond hair sticking out in ram's horns from beneath the rolled-up edge of a woolly bobble hat, slim frame draped in James' far-too-large parka, and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps on his lips as he catches sight of them. He sidles up beside James and reaches carefully for the cigarette, taking a cheeky drag when James lowers his hand again. James stares at him, at the pursing of his plush lips around the cigarette, and feels a warm flush that has nothing to do with the surprisingly mild February night washes through him.

"Hey," Steve grins, nudging him gently with his shoulder, and James smiles.

"Hello."

"How're things?"

James, in a moment of madness, replies, "Hanging like grapefruits," and smirks, and Steve's eyes widen before he bursts out laughing. James watches him double over and scrunch his face up, the sparkling of his eyes and the damp pinkness of his mouth, the deep, rich timbre of his voice, and feels that warmth again. It's frightening - in no way is he ready to be falling in love with an American in England, a coworker ("Bad idea. You don't shit where you eat, do you?" Morita had eloquently explained to him on his first day) - above all, a _man_. But Steve beside him is warm, and cute in his small well-wrapped-up frame, and he even finds James' stupid jokes funny - and he can't help it. He really can't. Like that Elvis Presley song.

The Darkness is playing from inside the pub, and they head inside as he stubs out the cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose like a dragon. Steve takes a seat in the booth by the door (the pub is so small, there's barely any room), and Bucky slides in beside him to dump his jacket before offering to buy the first round. Steve orders a coke, saying that alcohol conflicts with his medication, and James nods before making his way to the bar. When he turns around, Morita and Dernier as well as a few latecomers from America B have joined them at the table. Steve has kept his space clear, and he beams at James as he slides the coke across the table to him.

"So, Barnes, what you missed..." Morita begins, and fills James in on everything.

By the end of the night, he's feeling warm and a little fuzzy-headed and happy on the cider, and Steve's eyes are bluer than the sea, and his hand is gentle and soft on James' back. They've been as thick as thieves all night, and Steve has started calling him 'Bucky' after his superhero's sidekick, and it makes his stomach flutter pleasantly. He's staring at Steve with an undoubtedly glassy-eyed expression; Morita is laughing, calling him a lightweight, but Steve is smiling softly at him with a warmth in his eyes like a roaring fire, and James - Bucky - wants to bathe in it.

He could sink into that gaze like a hot bath, he's sure.

"C'mon, sidekick," Steve says, and rubs his back. Bucky nods sleepily, mumbling something noncommittal and pressing happily into the warmth of Steve's body against his side. Steve leads him out and Falsworth pauses Bucky for a moment to grin and whisper, "Don't trip over your tongue, will you?" and Tim tells him to "Go get 'im, tiger," and Morita grins - "Don't be silly, wrap your willy!" -and Bucky flicks them all the bird before stumbling out after Steve, February cold against his cider-warmed cheeks.

He's waiting on the pavement outside the pub, smoking another cigarette, and grins when he sees Bucky. He smiles and bumps his shoulder against Bucky's bicep. "Had fun tonight?"

"I think it's very obvious that I did," Bucky confesses sheepishly, all too aware of being more than a little tipsy whilst Steve, stone cold sober on coca cola, laughs at him. Bucky grins back, and they walk together companionably for a few minutes into the city centre before Steve glances at him with pensive denim-blue eyes.

"I had fun, too. But... I was wondering if, maybe, you wanted to hang out a bit more? Just the two of us?"

Bucky is drunk. More drunk than he would like to be. And the cold is setting into his bones, making his left arm ache beyond belief, and he can't stand the idea of Steve finding out, so he hesitates. Steve notices - of course he does, he's more observant than anyone Bucky has ever met before - and his smile slides off his face slowly, chin dropping to his chest dejectedly.

"Okay. Sorry, man, I - I must've got the wrong idea-" He sounds miserable, and Bucky's heart clenches in his chest.

"The... wrong idea?"

Steve looks up at him, biting his lip. "Yeah. I - please don't take this the wrong way - but... I was kinda getting vibes off you, y'know, interested vibes, and I was hoping that maybe we could get to know each other a little better in private, but I'm obviously barking up the wrong tree." He wrings his hands nervously, and Bucky is still trying to translate his words into what he knows Steve probably means, instead of what he wants it to mean, and is coming up a blank.

"Interested vibes?"

"Yeah. Like... Ugh. Never mind. Forget I said anything. It's not like you'd be interested in _me_ even if you were... Anyway."

Bucky stops short, hand shooting out to stop him. "Hey. No. I am... I am - as you suspected. And, uh, I am... interested. In getting to know you better. Maybe a date some time. But... not tonight, if that is alright? I am drunk, and will say something wrong, because I have no - how you say? - no filter when I am drunk. It just comes out, _blerrghh_ , like vomit."

Steve's face softens and he smiles shyly. "But... you would like to maybe go on a date sometime?"

Bucky nods. "Absolutely. Yes."

* * *

They decide to go out again together - just the two of them, this time - on Monday, after work. Steve wants to take him to a showing of an old Clark Gable movie, and Bucky is vibrating with excitement all weekend. He fights the urge to text Steve every few minutes - they exchanged numbers on Friday at the pub, everyone who had been sitting around their table, and Bucky's frankly paltry contacts list seems to have doubled or even tripled in length by the end of the night - and settles for _one_ text on Sunday, a simple _Looking forward to tomorrow_. Steve replies with, _me too. x_ , and Bucky tries and fails not to act like a teenage girl at the sight of that kiss at the end of the message. He hopes it's a promise.

Morita and the others rib him about Friday evening all day, naturally - Morita breaking into a song from an apparently famous American musical, 'I Can Hear The Bells' - and he spends most of the time blushing fiercely and repeating "No comment," much to their amusement. Morita is still humming it at four p.m. when they all sign out, and only stops when Tim whacks him with his hard hat.

Bucky smiles gratefully at Tim.

He's dizzy with anticipation in the minivan on the way home. Running through all the things he has to do before meeting Steve at the cinema for their date. Shower, change of clothes, make himself look vaguely presentable - change the bed sheets, tidy the flat (it never hurts to _hope_ , after all, even if he doesn't exactly _expect_ for things to get to that stage). He spends too long in the shower - embarrassingly, most of it making sure he's clean everywhere - and he means _everywhere_ , with a blush to his cheeks and an excited sparkle in his eyes. He picks out a pale blue shirt and his one pair of decent non-work jeans, slipping his feet into his omnipresent Doc Martins. His hair is a lost cause (it always is), but he at least makes the effort to try and smooth it down a little with one hand nervously before leaving the flat.

Steve arrives a few minutes after him, dressed in an oversized plaid shirt, his bobble hat and a pair of sinfully tight skinny jeans, small feet in a pair of brilliant red Docs to match Bucky's own. He spots that and grins, and Bucky's chest is filled with sunlight and stars, so light he could float off the ground and away amongst the clouds. Steve gives him a hug hello, holding on a little longer than is strictly necessary (another flush of pleasure through Bucky's body), before leading him inside and handing him a ticket.

"Screen three. _Gone With the Wind_." He blushes as he says it, and Bucky leans in to kiss his pink cheek, unable to stop himself. It makes Steve blush brighter, smile broadening, and Bucky smiles to himself. God, but Steve is adorable.

"I know it's a cliché," Steve murmurs sheepishly, "but I just love the whole Civil War era and the drama and history behind it. It was my mom's favourite movie, too - all the costumes and Vivien Leigh and the sepia-toned nostalgia." He laughs at that, and Bucky smiles.

"It's fine," Bucky says, because it is. Honestly, he'd be happy watching paint dry, as long as Steve was beside him. "I haven't seen this before, anyway, and I haven't told you but I'm a bit of a Golden Age of Hollywood buff myself. _Gone With the Wind_ is fine with me."

"Great," Steve says happily, and they take their seats.

 _Gone With the Wind_ is a phenomenally long movie (it even has an intermission, for Christ's sake), and the protagonist Scarlett makes Bucky want to give her a good slap - how she could have been chasing Ashley, who was a wet blanket and far too weak-willed and simple to be able to handle her when she had Rhett Butler, rake, wastrel and love of her life, Bucky would never know - but he loves the movie. What he loves most of all, though, is that Steve knows all the lines - murmurs them along with the actors - and that he can't hide the tears in his eyes when the sad bits happen. He's almost inconsolable at the end when Rhett is blaming himself, and he's furious when the wires between Rhett and Scarlett get crossed after her illness. The effect is entirely too charming, and Bucky presses kisses to his cheek to dab the tears away with his lips, tasting the salt.

Steve blushes, wiping at his face with his sleeve. "Let me," Bucky says, and swipes his thumb under Steve's eyes gently before sticking his thumb in his mouth to suck it clean. Steve watches, swallows hard, and Bucky feels the swooping in his stomach before Steve whispers "Stop me if-" before their lips connect and Bucky is melting into it like warm butter.

They kiss slowly as the lights slowly raise again, the theatre slowly emptying, until it's just them and the warmth of their bodies leaning over the arm rest against one another. Bucky sighs shakily and Steve's tongue slips into his mouth, and _oh, it's heaven_.

* * *

At work the next day he's asked how things went. He just smiles secretively, ignores their whoops and catcalling, and texts Steve to say, _thank you again for last night. really enjoyed myself_.

 _anytime. see you soon, sidekick_ comes back, and he grins and pockets his phone again.

* * *

He heads to the office after work one Thursday to walk Steve home, and the blond is already waiting outside, sharing a cigarette with Peggy, who had done a shift in the office with him that afternoon. Bucky says hello to her as he collects Steve, and she smiles at them and wishes them a good night as Steve stubs out the cigarette and quickly crosses the courtyard. He kisses Bucky hello, and Bucky grins.

Steve reaches for his left hand. Bucky swallows and yanks his arm back as though burned.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Steve says gently, concerned, and Bucky forces a smile.

"It's nothing. Just... nothing."

"Okay," Steve says, and doesn't push.

They buy fish and chips for dinner, having a mock-up of the War of the Roses (Steve spent six weeks as an intern at Warwick Castle, and as such considers himself something of an expert). Bucky, forcibly Richard when Steve shotgunned the Lancastrian stance, is nevertheless victorious, his chip 'lance' breaking Steve's in half. He laughs and dunks it in the ketchup as Steve protests good naturedly - "The course of history has been altered! What are we going to do - where's David Tennant when you need him?" - before feeding it to Steve.

"There. Henry has consumed Richard's army, and the world is safe."

"My knight in shining parka," Steve grins, batting his eyelashes, and Bucky kisses him again.

When they get back to Steve's place, he invites Bucky inside, and they sit on the couch sharing a tube of Pringles and watching old episodes of _Storage Hunters_ on Dave before Steve tentatively broaches the subject of earlier.

"I'm sorry if I screwed up at the office. I didn't mean to overstep boundaries."

Bucky sighs heavily. He supposes he has to break it to Steve at some point, and turns to him with a heavy heart. "It's... It's not your fault. I never warned you about it. But my left arm is very... Damaged. An incident at work in Russia - it was broken, and I never got the bones mended so they are crooked and cause a lot of pain, especially in cold weather. And the scar is... ugly."

'Ugly' is a kind word for what happened. He had been working for a company in St Petersburg, a very shady supposedly-wine-importer business where his immediate bosses were a Swiss ex-Nazi, Armin Zola, and an American, Alexander Pierce. To put it simply, Bucky had discovered things about their imports and exports that he shouldn't have whilst unpacking in the storage facility after hours, and his silence had been bought for an arm that had been broken with a tire iron. The bones had been poking through the skin by the time they had finished with him, and the result - a crooked, agonisingly painful set to the bones and a thick, knotted purple scar from his elbow to his wrist - was horrendous. Still, he had escaped with his life, which is more than can be said for some of their ex-employees, according to rumour.

Steve nods. "I'm sorry."

Bucky nods, too. "Thank you." He hesitantly rolls up the sleeve - wanting to gauge Steve's reaction - but there's no instantaneous recoil, no harsh intake of breath or visible shudder. Steve looks, but doesn't stare. He doesn't touch. His eyes move instead to Bucky's face, and his hand comes up to cup his cheek.

"Thank you for trusting me to know and see that." He says simply, and Bucky falls more in love with him than he could ever have dreamed.

* * *

They stay on the couch for another hour, through two more episodes, until their lazy, occasional kisses progress to more heated, wetter meetings of their lips, gasping softly into one another's mouths and tongues rubbing against each other. Bucky's cock twitches in his jeans, and Steve's hand is massaging his thigh gently, inching towards it slowly as though waiting for Bucky to shove him away. Instead, his hips arch with a needy, greedy moan and Steve whimpers, hand beginning to knead Bucky's dick through his jeans.

Bucky groans, head tipping back against the back of the couch, and Steve climbs down to shuffle in front of him, one hand on each knee as he looks up at Bucky with blown blue eyes.

"Can I?" he asks, lips swollen and kissed red, and Bucky can't even formulate sound beyond another needy moan.

Steve presses gently, eyes brimming with lust but determined. "Buck, I need to hear a yes or a no. 'M not gonna touch you without one."

He groans impatiently, hips jerking. "Yes, yes - please-"

Steve gives him a wolfish grin, and sets to immediately.

His mouth is warm and wet when he takes Bucky in, throat like velvet, and his head moves slowly up and down over the shaft whilst his hand plays gently with Bucky's balls. He's a master - or else a born natural - and his tongue teasing Bucky's foreskin and dipping into the slit in the head makes him keen and arch his hips for more. It takes all of five minutes for Bucky to be pulsing down his throat, and Steve swallows and pulls away, glassy-eyed and lips puffy and red.

He smiles, and climbs up over Bucky to straddle him and claim his reward in a kiss.

* * *

Bucky realises, with Steve passed out beside him on the bed, what he has done.

There is a man - a man he has had his brains sucked out of his dick by - sleeping beside him. He has engaged in what are criminal acts in Russia with another man. And even though it's Steve - even though he would trust him with the world, and he is pretty sure that he's fallen head over heels in love with the guy - Bucky can't do this. He's not supposed to want this beyond his dreams, which are the fault of his unconscious brain and not his waking desires - he's not supposed to feel this need for Steve's body to be pressed warmly against his, feel those drugging, tugging kisses pulling his soul out through his mouth and filling him with sunlight instead - he's not supposed to feel or need or want anything from a man.

And yet he does. Because it's Steve Rogers.

He bolts upright in bed, chest heaving with panic. He flings the covers away and heads for the lounge, as far away from the blissfully oblivious blond as he can get - thinks about waking him, asking him to leave. He's tempted. But the shame, the pain he would feel at chasing Steve out of his apartment like he'd found him committing a murder is too much to bear, so he knows he won't. He'll just end up reverting to old habits and holding Steve at arm's length, the way he has every other attractive man he knows in an attempt to stop exactly this from happening.

Christ, what a fuckup.

But Steve comes padding out of the bedroom on sleepy feet, hair tousled and a soft, sleep-rumpled smile on his face, and he wraps his arms around Bucky's waist and kisses his shoulder gently. Bucky's chest feels tight and he tries desperately to control himself, to stem the flow of tears threatening to break out from beneath his eyelids - and fails. His chest shakes with sobs, his face is lined with tear tracks, and Steve is clucking soothingly like a mother hen and turning Bucky in his arms to encourage him to curl up in his arms like a crying child with a parent.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, deep voice a rumble. "What's all this? I do somethin' wrong?"

"No," Bucky mumbles, because whatever horrible names he calls himself, a liar he is not. "You did everything right. That's the... that's the problem."

Steve sighs heavily, rubbing his back with one broad palm. "I... I get it. Everyone's been there, Bucky. If this is... if it turns out that this isn't what you want, that's fine. I... I'm a big boy, I'll be able to cope. But... but don't beat yourself up about it, Bucky. It's completely normal. There's nothing wrong with you, I promise."

Bucky chokes a sob into the thin cotton of Steve's nightshirt. "B-but... I... I tried so hard to - to be different - to want different-"

"I know," Steve says sadly, stroking his hair. "So did I, at first. Scared the hell outta me, looking at guys that way when all of them were talkin' about girls. I mean, I like girls... I go both ways, but that doesn't mean I accepted it any easier. Made it worse, even. Couldn't work out why I couldn't just pick one and stick with it, same as everyone else."

Bucky nods into his shoulder. "But... it's wrong..."

"No it's not," Steve says firmly, and his voice rings clear as a bell, so clear Bucky can't see it as anything less than it is - a hard truth. "There's nothin' wrong with loving who you love, Bucky. Be it a guy or a girl or a garden fence-" Bucky chokes out a wet laugh - "there's nothing wrong with you, I promise. And, even if I do say so myself," he puts on a mock smirk, "you could do worse."

Bucky laughs, and Steve smiles, still rubbing his back.

* * *

Their first (real) argument happens not long after that, close to their six month anniversary. Bucky's parents - adoptive, strict Russian Orthodox and more than a little overbearing in their need to smother him with love and prove that he is wanted - come over to stay for a week, and Bucky hasn't... well. He's told them that he has a roommate, Steve, and Steve introduces himself with a warm smile and a shake of his father's hand, but he's standing too close and Bucky can see his mother's eyes narrowing at the proximity of Steve's body to his. He steps away awkwardly and Steve stiffens minutely beside him, and oh, fuck, it's all going to hell.

Steve keeps a respectful distance between them from that moment on, but he's radiating confusion and hurt whenever Bucky looks up, and he's got that slight, tiny disapproving frown knotted constantly between his eyebrows. The moment Bucky's parents retire for the night, Steve is sitting him down at the table and asking him exactly what is going on. Bucky has to take a few minutes to swallow nervously and try to translate what would be a rush of flustered Russian into English, and then puts his head in his hands when he realises exactly how it would come across to Steve if he told his boyfriend - because that's what Steve is, even if they haven't technically put a name to what they have yet - that _My parents don't know and they won't approve, so please don't touch or kiss me for this week whilst they're around because I'm too frightened to tell them about that other part of me that I've been hiding from them for years, please don't leave me, I love you_.

Steve doesn't hit the roof (thank God), but he does rub at his temples tiredly and ask, "Why didn't you let me know before they came over? Jesus, Bucky, the amount of times I could've blown it for you-" And isn't it just typical that even in this situation, Steve is thinking of Bucky's needs above his own, so selfless it hurts?

"I didn't want to upset you-"

"You've upset me now, though, because I'm worrying about what I might have inadvertently said or done all weekend to clue them in and honestly, Bucky, I thought we were past the whole miscommunication thing - you didn't think this was maybe an important thing to tell me?"

"Yes, but..." He sighs, and rubs Steve's arm gently, trying to apologise with his facial expressions as well as his voice. Words often fail him; he's grown good at using his body language to speak for him instead, and he lays his head on Steve's shoulder. "It is important. I should have told you. But I was afraid that... that you would think I am ashamed of us, ashamed of you, and that you would be angry."

"I know you're not ashamed, Buck," Steve says softly, a small smile curving up the edges of his lips, and he kisses Bucky's cheek gently. "We got past that, didn't we? I just... I know it's scary, but they're your parents. They love you."

"They're Russian," Bucky answers back, a harder, bleaker tone in his voice. Steve's brow raises until he continues. "Being gay is... In Russia, it's not something that is accepted. It can get you arrested; it could even get you killed, in the wrong places. Russia is not a good place for people like us, and... and too many people agree or allow things to continue as they are there for my comfort. I don't want to hurt my parents, no, but I also don't want them to hurt you. I don't know how they will react if I do tell them, and... and you are too precious to me to risk anything." He glances up at Steve and sees the soft, pained expression in his blue eyes as he leans down to kiss Bucky again, mouth warm and comforting against his boyfriend's lips.

"I get it, Buck. I do, really. I just wish it were different."

"Well, me too, Steve. But it's not, so... is it okay if we're just... roommates, just for this week? With them here?"

Steve sighs and rubs his temples again. "Am I allowed to be your boyfriend in our bedroom?" They had had to move Steve onto the couch in the living room; the spare bedroom had, of course, gone to Bucky's parents, and Steve wouldn't hear of Bucky taking the couch to allow him a decent mattress to support his weak back.  _I wouldn't dream of it_ had been his exact words, and then he'd hit Bucky with the pillow when he'd retorted, smart-mouthed, _You wouldn't dream at all, because you won't be able to sleep on the couch_. "I love you, Buck. Separate beds - well, couch and bed - I can cope with, but I need to at least cuddle you every so often." He nuzzled Bucky's neck, mouthing at his shoulder where the collar of his work polo would hide any marks tomorrow, and Bucky had to stifle the soft moan; Steve's mouth was a sin all in itself, and he knew it and used it to his advantage.

"In our bedroom, yes. And at work, obviously."

"Okay. Thank you," Steve murmurs, and then proceeds to sink to his knees and give Bucky the fastest, most heart-pounding blowjob he's ever received - forcing him to bite down on the meat of his forearm to muffle the cries and whimpers as Steve works a finger into him whilst swallowing his cock to the root. He comes with a choked gasp of Steve's name, and then has to quickly right himself and unruffle his clothes before the slap-slap of his mother's slippers arrive in the kitchen, Steve busying himself with the kettle. He mercifully keeps back turned, to spare Bucky's mother's eyes the sight of the (impressive) hard-on tenting his jogging bottoms.

Bucky promises payback with heated eyes, and Steve grins over his shoulder.

* * *

Steve falls sick a lot, Bucky notices. It's sad - he hates feeling powerless, being unable to solve the problems Steve's immune system (or, more accurately, lack of it) is throwing them. But he loves the fact that when Steve is sick, it's a green light for him to take the week off work to look after him and spoil him rotten. They curl up on the couch together, wrapped in the double duvet, watching terribly cheesy movies together. Steve introduces him to the glorious silliness of _The Princess Bride_ , and before long it's Bucky's favourite film. Steve whispers all the one-liners to him as the characters speak them, and Bucky falls about laughing because somehow they're even funnier in Steve's deadpan voice.

They watch _The Princess Bride_ and _Wayne's World_ (and both join in with the _Bohemian Rhapsody_ scene in the car, headbanging and laughing at how ridiculous they both look and feel, giddy as children at a sleepover) and _Austin Powers_ , and then _The Breakfast Club_ (Bucky cries), _Pretty Woman_ (Steve bawls), and _Dead Poets Society_ (they both do).

All either of them has to do from that first sick day onwards is shoot each other a look and start rhyming, and they both lose it.

Steve calls him 'Farm Boy', and Bucky responds "As you wish." to every request Steve poses him.

Steve puts on a ridiculous, hammy Latin accent and pretends to fence with him, sparring with wooden spoons in the kitchen.

Bucky pulls him into a kiss and whispers how much he loves him - "despite your being such a huge dork!" - and Steve smiles against his mouth, taking his hand and leading him up to bed. And it's probably the best sex of Bucky's life, simply because of how he feels about Steve - runny nose and all.

Their one-year anniversary falls on another day that Steve is unfortunately off sick, which scuppers Bucky's plans for a romantic home-cooked dinner and chocolates before a hopefully marathon sex session in bed. Admittedly, he does keep to the 'waiting on Steve hand and foot' part of the plan, because his boyfriend frankly deserves it and it has always absolutely killed Bucky to see Steve suffering, sniffling miserably beneath their duvet on the couch and asking pathetically if he can have a back rub to ease the painful tension in his twisted spine. Bucky sits Steve on his lap, resting his boyfriend's skinny body against his chest and humming quietly as he works the knots out of Steve's back.

A particularly painful one makes Steve let out a weak sob, and Bucky sighs sadly, nuzzling his boyfriend's feverish cheek. "Do you want to put _The Princess Bride_ on again?"

"No," Steve mumbles, miserable. "We've seen that too many times already."

Bucky hadn't been aware that it was possible for Steve to see _The Princess Bride_ too many times, but nevertheless he acquiesces and pulls up the Netflix queue instead. He puts the USA version of  _The Office_ on as background noise, and cuddles with Steve through half an episode before his boyfriend's sticky breathing slows into the deep ins-and-outs of sleep, and they end up both sleeping on the couch, curled around each other, for several hours before Bucky rouses himself to carry Steve back to bed.

* * *

The FaceTime call when he does, finally, tell his parents about their relationship goes about as well as can be expected. His father huffs; his mother lets out a screechy "Yasha, why you didn't tell us earlier, we spend so long trying to find you a nice young lady-" " _Mama_ -" "-and all this time you been having a nice young man, Yasha, you ought to be ashamed, hiding him away from us-"

"...Mama? You-"

"Where is he? We meet him?"

"Mama..." He's about ready to cry. A year and a half of being terrified of telling his parents that the American in his apartment is not only sleeping with him in the one double bed with him in 'his' bedroom, but that they're _sleeping together_ sleeping together, and his mother is demanding to meet his 'lovely young man' and telling him off for keeping him hidden for so long. He feels like he's been told up is down.

"Mama, you have met him," he answers, "it's Steve."

She swats the phone camera, cussing him out in Russian - he laughs in shock, because his mother never swears and wow, she must be pissed - "You dating Steve and you never told your mama? Yasha, you're a naughty boy-"

"Yes he is," Steve pipes up from the kitchen, to his mother's amusement and Bucky's furious red-faced blushing, a squawk of _Steve! Not appropriate!_ leaving his mouth. His mother fixes him with a glower, however, and his face immediately drains back through his normal colour to white as a sheet. She tuts disapprovingly.

"Yasha, you shouldn't have kept this from us."

"I'm sorry, Mama-"

"Poor Steve must have been very upset when we come to visit you back then. Is not fair to treat your boyfriend like a stranger in front of his parents-in-law-to-be."

"Mama!" He's back to blushing brilliant red, and she laughs.

"Am I wrong?"

"Mama, he's listening! I... Mama, not yet. Don't scare him off!"

She cackles. Bucky can't help thinking about it - being married to Steve. Proposing on his birthday, perhaps, or New Year's, when all the fireworks went off in celebration and the glow of multicoloured sparks lit up Steve's face on the ecstatic _Yes!_ \- or (cold fear sluicing his gut like iced water) would it be a _No_? An awkward smile, an 'I'm sorry, Buck...' trailing off as he looked away, anywhere but at Bucky's face - but no. Steve loved him. He told him so often enough. And there had been so many times, out in town, recently when Steve would slow his strides almost imperceptibly when they passed a jeweller's, a look of anticipation and longing on his face...

Maybe the proposal would be the other way around. Maybe it would be Bucky receiving the ring, flinging his arms around Steve's neck and shrieking such an enthusiastic _Yes_ that Steve would have to turn down his hearing aid. Bucky feels his heart flutter excitedly in his chest; he can't wait. Someday, it will happen, he's sure. And really, it doesn't matter how, or when, or who it is who does the asking and who does the _yes_ ing - as long as it's the pair of them, and they end up saying those words somewhere before he's allowed to kiss Steve for the millionth time, but the first as his husband.

His mother's voice pulls him out of the fantasy.

"We love you, Yasha. Talk again soon, okay? And next time, we talk to Steve too. Your father needs to give him the Talk."

" _Goodbye_ , Mama," he groans, and shuts the call off. Steve comes out of the kitchen, still smirking. Bucky glowers at him.

"You heard none of that, understand?"

"Roger that," Steve nods, and then bursts into laughter as Bucky rolls his eyes at the terrible joke.

"That was awful. Why do I even love you?" he asks, and Steve grins, kissing the corner of his mouth and ruffling his hair.

"Because your jokes are as bad as mine, and because I'm just so cute."

Bucky has to admit that Steve has him there.

* * *

He finds a sheep femur buried underneath a large cobble, and takes a Snapchat photo, which he sends to Steve along with the caption, _Wanna bone?_

 _Why, Mister Barnes. I'm scandalised_.

Bucky laughs.

They've been dating two years, living together for one. Bucky still struggled with everything and getting used to it for the first few months, but Steve was patient, as he always is. Bucky has been working the Whitefriars dig for three years, and it's halfway done now. Falsworth discovered a Roman bathhouse the day before, and he's been helping excavate, gasping in awe over the intricately tiled floors being revealed with every tiny sweep of his brush, tessellated patterns in white and red like waves of milk and wine, and he takes photos on his phone to text to Steve every so often. He gets strings of emoticons and exclamation marks back - some things never change - and he smiles to himself at the thought of coming home to his boyfriend, who is always so incredibly excited by everything happening in their lives - even during the daily grind of eight 'til four on the dig site.

He palms the box in his pocket, thinks about it. Two years of teasing Steve about his tears over Rhett Butler; two years of having splash wars with the dishwater after dinner; two years of bickering over Team Brandori on _Storage Hunters_ , of Steve making terrible puns. Two whole years. Two of the absolute best years of his life.

He pulls the box out of his pocket. Sets its contents down on the tiled Roman floors, and takes another Snapchat. He quotes the Bishop's speech to Humperdinck and Buttercup, applies the relevant emoticon, hits 'send', and waits.

The answer comes back with a picture of Steve's face, tears in his eyes, and beaming like the sun.

 _As you wish_.

**Author's Note:**

> The Whitefriars dig was a real thing, running from 2000 - 2003 (on the website - colleagues of mine who attended it say it continued into 2005, but that's whatever)! You can see the [.pdf file](http://www.canterburytrust.co.uk/schools/pdf/bigdig.pdf) of the dig, where it was and what was found during the excavation work. Anyway, the items discovered in this story were real finds from that dig, too. Brownie points if you look at the file and work out which ones I'm talking about.
> 
> Also, because I have clearly been bitten by the AU bug and am obsessed with this new (to me) pairing, there is also a Formula One AU in the pipeline which will hopefully be up soonish (meaning, whenever I can get time around work and updating _Part of Your World_ )!


End file.
